


At Choice

by granger_danger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Divorced Hermione Granger & Ron Weasley, Drinking, Explicit Language, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fun Subverting the Enchanted Mistletoe Trope, Gentle Cheese, Granger and Malfoy Are Co-Workers, Harry Potter Characters In Their Thirties, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, Lots of dialogue, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Ministry of Magic Yule Party, Ministry!Fic, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Not much plot, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Slow Burn, Smoking, Social Justice, Soul Bond, The Oven That Bakes the Malfoy Heir, discussion of consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/pseuds/granger_danger
Summary: A very disgruntled Hermione gets stuck beneath Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' latest take on enchanted mistletoe at the Ministry's annual Yule party.It will all be fine as long as she can escape before Malfoy (former childhood nemesis, current co-worker,Witch WeeklyBachelor of the Year) arrives on the scene.*Not your average enchanted mistletoe story, but a fun (slightly angsty, slightly spicy!) bite of Christmas cheese nonetheless.*
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - Relationship
Comments: 114
Kudos: 587





	1. Christmas Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WideTheWaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WideTheWaters/gifts).



> Two days late, a dollar short, and at least two chapters too long: please accept my humble late entry into 2019's Christmas fluff.
> 
> A gift for [WideTheWaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WideTheWaters/pseuds/WideTheWaters). You can't give me a Thanksgiving fic without getting a winter holiday fic in return! Though my story exists in its own corner of the multiverse, with a very different take on Hermione and Draco, astute readers of her work [Inconspicuous](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21402118/chapters/50987812) may find some _very_ small Easter eggs (X-mas eggs? Opaleye eggs?).
> 
> Content Warning: This work doesn't come anywhere remotely close to portraying rape or non-con, but it does contain (passionate but relatively light-hearted) discussion and exploration of consent as a general topic, mainly in the form of Hermione yelling at George Weasley about the ethical hazards of charmed mistletoe.

_Friday, December 24, 2010 - 6:38 pm_

“ _Again_ with the charmed mistletoe?” Hermione demanded incredulously, stuck to the floor of the Ministry ballroom where the annual employee Yule party was about to begin. She looked up and narrowed her eyes at the foul plant in question, before leveling her angry gaze back at the true culprits. “I’ve already told both of you how incredibly _problematic_ this is, when it comes to consent-”

“Ah, but we considered that!” George raised a finger. “Right, Ron?”

“Eh, right.” Ron did not appear to be particularly interested in engaging his ex-wife in an argument about consent. They’d parted on good terms, but there were still limits to what their post-divorce friendship could withstand. 

“ _And_ we made some adjustments,” George added, looking significantly at Ron and elbowing him. Though Ron was an excellent partner in most aspects of running Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, George had never quite been able to accept his inability to fill Fred’s shoes when it came to snappy conversational duets. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Ron in a way that portended bat bogies. Everyone present had enough first-hand experience to know that Ginny had taught her well. 

“It won’t let anyone kiss you if you don’t want them to!” Ron blurted out, red-faced and desperate. George grimaced at him, shaking his head despairingly at his brother’s total lack of panache. 

“And just _how_ is that determination made?” Hermione demanded skeptically, raising a brow at George, who she suspected to be the brains behind this particular operation. 

“A true magician never tells.” George rolled up first one, and then the other sleeve of his purple velour blazer with a coy flourish. “But for you and you alone, Ms. Granger: a little from column A, a little from column B, some complicated arithmancy running analysis on body language paired with a charm assessing chemistry…”

“But that’s absurd!” Hermione's brow crinkled in full indignation. “We’ve been over all of this _before_ , and you know as well as I do that physical response is _not_ the same as permission.”

“Hermione, Hermione.” George played at being wounded. “You are forever underestimating us. Though, to be fair, Ron usually deserves it.”

“Hey!” Ron protested around a mouthful of figgy pudding that he had produced from his pocket, and which Hermione suspected he had nicked from the kitchens. The party hadn’t started and hors d'oeuvres weren’t even being served yet, let alone pudding. 

“First of all,” George continued, “witness it in action.” He began to move into Hermione’s personal space and was immediately bounced back forcibly, as though he had walked directly into an invisible wall made of rubber. 

“Well, that at least is good news, as I’d rather not be anywhere near _either_ of you right now.” Hermione spoke through gritted teeth. 

“Secondly,” - he flashed her a showman’s smile, lifting two fingers - “you can override the mistletoe’s kiss-approval sensors by clearly stating, ‘I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT.’”

“But I still have to be kissed by _someone_ before I can move.” Hermione tried to keep her voice level, but her eyes were burning furiously into George and she was seriously considering setting his robes on fire. “Which, _as we’ve been over_ , is incredibly problematic!” 

“Third,” George went on immediately, anticipating this point. “This mistletoe accepts _any_ kiss. A kiss on the cheek, the hand, the tip of the fingernail… Surely there is _someone_ in this room you would kiss on the cheek in greeting _anyway_.” He put a hand on his chin and tapped a finger against his lips pensively. “Although, if you ask me, that particular loophole sucks the _fun_ right out of a beloved holiday tradition…”

“Oh, save it.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “As though anyone needs a romantic custom based around a toxic parasite, not to mention how steeped in patriarchy its entire history is…” She glared at George for good measure. “And that’s without even including the fact that you’ve _modified_ the tradition with magic to make it _compulsory-_ ”

“ _And_ given you a way to essentially opt out without personal cost in a room full of people who you allow to kiss you on the cheek in greeting on a regular basis. All while ensuring that the fine employees of the Ministry aren’t short on Christmas cheer!” George clasped his hands with satisfaction, grinning winningly at Hermione. “And _that_ concludes our promotional pitch for Consent-Yule Mistletoe, available for public purchase next season pending a successful trial!”

“You’re _not_ calling it that!” Hermione groaned in disbelief, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes and grimacing before remembering that she had put on Muggle eye make-up for the party. She blew out a frustrated breath, then blinked at them, absently running a hand through the tendrils of hair that had escaped from the front of her increasingly unruly chignon. “And what are the two of you even _doing_ here, at an event exclusively for Ministry staff!?”

“And their families!” George supplied merrily. “As you may recall, the lovely Angelina,” - here he gestured across the way, where his very pregnant wife was releasing golden snitches that had been strewn with silver tinsel into the ballroom - “works in Magical Games and Sports _and_ is chair of the Ministry Social Committee…”

He smiled up at Hermione unimpeachably, lifting his hands up in an amiable shrug.

“She asked me to help decorate.” 

Hermione, giving up, rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Well, you can warn her that I will be _having words_ with her on Monday if you like. As for _you two_ , I’m sure Ginny will be more than happy to help me assess and execute appropriate revenge…” Her eyes glinted, and she leveled a calculating smirk at George.

“You wouldn’t!” George's face puckered in protest.

“Oh, she definitely would,” Ron confirmed knowingly. 

“And you!” Hermione fumed, her righteous indignation returning. She would have rounded on him if only she could move her damned feet. “Why on earth are _you_ here, _Ronald_?”

“I got used to coming with you every year.” Ron shrugged a bit pathetically, looking away from her and running a hand through his thinning red hair. “And George wanted my help. I thought it would be a lark.” He hesitated before asking, “Did you bring anyone this year?” Hermione scowled defiantly at Ron as he peered around her as though she may have been hiding a date behind her back.

“If you must know, I’m here alone, but I hardly see how that’s relevant-”

“Consider him your plus one, then!” George said, as though that solved the problem, and clapped Ron on the back. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Hermione, we really must be off-”

Hermione shook her head after them in irritation. “You haven’t heard the last from me about this!” she called after them threateningly and then sighed in resignation. She tested the limits of the charm for the fifth time, but both of her feet remained planted firmly on the floor. She went so far as to try, unsuccessfully, to slip a foot out from her strappy heel before admitting defeat. The charm was _thorough_ , she had to give them that. George was _excellent_ with theory; it was a shame his applications were so insufferable.

Caterers, both wizards and free elves, were beginning to stream into the room with chafing dishes and trays as Angelina’s team hustled to finish festooning the space with greenery and floating candles. On the other side of the ballroom, Luna Lovegood was smiling serenely as she cast languid spells at the ceiling. A column of enchanted snow drifted down gently from each place she had pointed her wand. 

Resigning herself to her circumstances, Hermione straightened out her cocktail dress, a lovely spaghetti-strapped knee-length affair made from ruched burgundy velvet. She was certain her face was a mess, judging from the smudged eyeliner on her hands, and she could feel her hair threatening to burst free from its tenuous updo at any moment. There was simply not enough Sleekeazy’s in the world. So much for the polished, professional, festive look she had fastidiously planned. 

It was _fine_ , though. Surely there was no harm in the Ministry’s Director for Equity and Inclusion spending the entire duration of the Ministry holiday party looking an absolute mess trapped beneath a sprig of enchanted mistletoe. It was only the networking event of the season, on which hinged the solidification of _several_ important alliances, but no matter. No, of course not, no harm at all. 

She was probably overreacting. Harry would arrive any moment, forever gallant, and grant her a chaste peck. Or perhaps she could even lure a friend into kissing her on the cheek in greeting without noticing the mistletoe. As long as she got out of this mess before Malfoy arrived, she would live this down, and her co-worker was _always_ fashionably late.

Sure, the fully reformed former-Death Eater was her long-time strategic partner and right-hand man in magical creature and Muggle-born civil rights education, but he would never not be her former schoolyard nemesis. They got on very well these days; their successful working relationship had been streamlined by years of fifty-hour weeks, coffee breaks, working lunches drafting curriculum or legislation… all punctuated by their good-natured acerbic grousing. They were certainly friends now, but Hermione could envision no possible realities in which Draco found her stranded under charmed mistletoe and didn’t take the piss. 

_Morgana’s left tit!_ Hermione scrunched up her nose in dismay as she glimpsed a sleek white-blonde head move through the growing crowd. Malfoy sashayed into the office ten minutes late every morning, but today of all days, he _had_ to be five minutes early.

Hermione turned her head as far to the side as she could, trying to be inconspicuous. But alas, here he came, raising a hand in casual greeting and strolling her way.  
  


* * *

_6:55 pm_

“Looking well, Granger!” Draco called pleasantly as he reached Hermione. “You look _lovely_ , actually.” His voice was sincere as his grey eyes swept over her approvingly, but when they reached her own eyes, which were now rather raccoon-like, he raised one brow skeptically. “Only-”

“Oh, Merlin’s _balls_ , Malfoy, don’t look at me like that,” Hermione grumbled, her cheeks turning pink. “I _know_ I’ve smudged it, only I haven’t a mirror-”

“Here, let me.” Draco stepped close to her, and her breath hitched involuntarily as he brushed a stray curl from her face. He’d broken through the boundary of the mistletoe enchantment, she’d noticed, but such charms weren’t always foolproof. And though he hadn’t ever kissed her on the cheek in greeting before, after all their years as colleagues working closely together, she wouldn’t think twice if he did. So perhaps that was all it signified, that she wouldn’t mind so _terribly_ if he kissed her cheek in greeting and freed her from this torment.

But then again, perhaps it meant something _more_. 

Inches away, Draco surveyed her eyes thoughtfully, and she couldn’t help but watch his murmuring lips as he swiftly cast an admittedly clever combination of cleaning and glamour charms. When he had finished, Hermione looked a question at him.

“Now, don’t look at _me_ like that, Granger,” he drawled amiably. “I used to help my mother get ready.” He surveyed her appraisingly, considering his work. “Much better.”

“Thank you.” She could not keep the ruefulness out of her tone. “You look pristine, of course.”

“Only you could make that sound like an insult, Granger,” he returned with a game quirk of his lips and a playful shake of his head. He really did look dapper tonight, decked out in the latest in wizarding formalwear. His fair hair was tastefully tousled, the sharp lines of his face quite handsome above his crisp white shirt and black silk bow tie. 

Draco’s keen grey eyes sparkled silver as he smirked at her. He really could smile at you in a way that made you feel _singular_ ; Hermione knew better, having watched him leverage his social graces for their shared professional advantage countless times. _Witch Weekly_ ’s Bachelor of the Year, _indeed_. Even if it _did_ make her stomach lurch giddily sometimes, the way he could look at her like she had hung the moon, she knew better than to assume it was _real_. 

Although, of course, there was always a chance that it _might_ be real after all. 

Imperative one was distracting him in order to keep him from noticing the mistletoe. “About the upcoming _Unlearning Pureblood Prejudices_ workshops, I was thinking we ought to rework the order. You need to tell a personal story earlier-”

“Oh no, Granger,” Draco protested, narrowing his gaze at her dryly. “I told you, no work talk tonight-”

“But Malfoy, it’s very _time-sensitive_ and-”

“Hush, Granger. Look-” He stepped off to her side, placing his left hand on the small of her back as he surreptitiously gestured to the far corner of the room with his right. “There’s Hiram Bones from the Hogwarts Board; we need his vote if we want the new curriculum to be mandatory for third-years, so let’s go give him the old razzle-dazzle-”

“You _just_ said no work talk.” Hermione squinted at him critically, her hand on her hip. She would _much_ rather start an immature and pedantic argument with him (their specialty!) than have him discover that she was stuck in place.

Malfoy arched a disdainful brow at her. “You’re _impossible_ tonight, Granger, what’s got your knickers in a twist? This is _networking_ , the whole reason we’re here. Besides, I can _enjoy_ myself while socializing with our contacts, and if it happens to benefit our cause, well, so much the better-”

“So you don’t enjoy yourself with me?” She was grasping at straws here, trying and failing to sound offended. Anything to stop him from attempting to make her cross the room with him.

Draco looked at her with confused concern. “I’m not saying that, Granger, and you know it,” he answered plaintively. “Now let’s go over there and do what we do best-”

He tried to guide her gently with the hand that was still resting at the small of her back as he stepped forward, but of course, she did not budge. He wrinkled his brow as he searched her face in puzzlement. Hermione, caught out, felt her face fall. Draco tugged at her waist again and tilted his head in thought. Then, to Hermione’s abject horror, he looked up.

“Ah, well, that explains it.” His words were wry, his eyes twinkling in amusement. Keeping his hand on her waist, he stepped around to face her directly. “Weasel 1 and Weasel 2, I take it?”

“Who else?” Hermione moaned, trying not to resent his evident glee. “ _That’s_ what my knickers have been in a twist about, as you so delicately put it, if you _must_ know. Now, if you’ll just give me a quick peck, we can go seduce Mr. Bones-”

“Not so fast, Granger,” Draco said huskily, stepping closer to her. He tightened his grip on her waist and brought his other hand around the back of her neck, where his thumb aimlessly stroked the soft skin of her nape. Hermione felt a spreading warmth low in her belly. 

Draco’s grey eyes drilled into hers with a focused intensity, and she couldn’t tell whether or not he was having her on. “What makes you think,” he drawled in a saucy whisper as he tilted his head to the side, “that I want to kiss you?” His breath ghosted over her ear. 

“ _Malfoy_ ,” she hissed, eyes round. “People are looking.” One of her hands had somehow landed on Malfoy’s waist. With the other one, she fidgeted awkwardly with the hem of her dress, glancing feverishly around the room. Appearances _mattered_ in their line of work… and yet, feeling his long, lean body so close to hers, she couldn’t quite force herself to care. Giving in, she let go of her dress and threaded both of her hands around his neck. _For balance_ , she thought to herself wishfully, though the greater part of her knew better by now. 

“Let them look,” he whispered, and then he drew back to look at her. His hands now encircled her waist. She shivered as his thumbs, cushioned by the velvet of her dress, brushed softly over the sides of her stomach. Draco’s eyes were boring into hers, full of heat and challenge. She didn’t know what any of it meant.

“Are you going to help me or not?” She widened her eyes at him in exasperation. A blush was rising on her cheeks. 

“Granger,” he said softly, gazing into her eyes intently and a little sadly. Sometimes he said her name as though it were a prayer. His nose brushed hers, and she could feel his breath on her dry lips. “If I were ever to kiss you,” he breathed, his voice incredibly solemn and his mouth impossibly close, “it wouldn’t be because of any _mistletoe_.”

With a surreal feeling as though perhaps she were dreaming, Hermione leaned in towards him instinctively, tilting her head up and to the side. Just before her lips could brush his, Draco pulled back the smallest amount, away from her lips but close enough that his nose was still touching hers, his eyes never leaving hers. It was subtle enough that it might have been a mistake, or nerves, or simply a pause. 

And now she was committed.

Hermione twined her fingers through the silken hairs at the base of his skull, pulling him towards her as she closed her eyes and leaned in to kiss him. Anticipating the brush of his lips, she felt… nothing. She opened her eyes to find Draco had taken a small step back, though his face was still mere inches from hers. His shoulders had stiffened beneath her hands; his eyes were closed and his expression was pained. Inexplicable hurt flared through her wildly, and her face crumpled as she looked up at him in question.

“No,” he said, very quietly, “don’t take it wrong, Granger, but not like this.” He gazed down at her sadly, pressing his lips together. 

The moment was broken. Hermione exhaled in frustration and cast her eyes up at the mistletoe. 

“I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT,” she intoned loudly, and Draco was immediately propelled backward a good foot, landing unceremoniously on his bottom. Parvati Patil raised an eyebrow from nearby, and from somewhere in the ballroom Hermione heard the shutter of a camera click. 

“What the hell, Granger!?” Draco issued a dismayed stage whisper from the floor, suddenly camera-conscious once more. Standing, he took a moment to carefully brush the wrinkles out of his formal robes. He may have worked through his prejudices and devoted his life’s work to fighting the ideologies of blood purity and magical might, but he remained rather vain. 

“If you aren’t going to kiss me, Malfoy,” Hermione said with a cold shrug, “then please go find someone who will.” He shot her a look that she knew to mean, _We’ll talk about this later_. 

“Well, I’m sure Prince Potter will be along to save you shortly. I’ll send him your way if I see him.” Malfoy’s voice was clipped, but he couldn’t quite keep the amusement out of his eyes. 

Hermione tried her best to frown at him, but her lips kept quirking up. It was harder and harder to stay mad at him lately, though she certainly tried. Her anger had evaporated, but unfortunately the feeling in the pit of her stomach, a heady combination of desire and disappointment, hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Harry’s not your errand boy, Malfoy.” She rolled her eyes. 

“Not yet,” Malfoy acknowledged with a wistful sigh, “but a man can dream. Later, Granger.” He winked at her as he waltzed away.

* * *

_7:49 pm_

Hermione strode purposefully towards a particular balcony after gritting her way through a series of strategic social interactions. Professional social lubrication always went better when she and Malfoy did it as a team, but she could manage on her own in a pinch. And managed is just what she had done: managed to finally escape after enduring twenty minutes of Elphias Doge droning on about the importance of maintaining and respecting ancient ritual traditions. 

She told herself that she wasn’t looking for Draco, that she just needed some air, but she knew that she was deluding herself. She also knew exactly where to find him.

Sure enough, there he was, leaning back against the wall of the building, shielding the ember of his lit cigarette from the wind with one elegant hand.

“Granger.” He said her name like a proclamation, amiably enough. “We meet again.”

“We always do,” she shot back in a jokingly resigned tone. Joining him against the wall, she sighed and held out her hand. “Could I bum one?”

“You don’t smoke,” Draco informed her, lifting a brow. 

Hermione let out a tired little groan and absently massaged her stiff neck with her right hand, her left still extended to receive a cigarette. “I do tonight, Malfoy.” 

“Far be it from me to police anyone’s vices.” Draco shrugged, handing her a thin cigarette. His fingers brushed hers and she felt her belly warm again. 

“Don’t worry, they’re _ethical_.” He flashed her an ironic smile and took a long drag. 

“Good to know, though that doesn’t make it a less dangerous or less disgusting habit,” she griped back. 

He shook his head at her wistfully, biting back a smirk. “It is _so_ like you, Granger, to lecture me about the perils of smoking in the midst of bumming a cigarette from me…”

She held the cigarette between her lips and gave Draco an expectant look. Leaning nearer to her, Draco lazily raised his wand and cast his trademark modified _Incendio_ , perfectly calibrated for lighting a cigarette without scorching one’s eyebrows. The hand he’d raised to block the wind brushed her cheek, and it seemed like an accident, but with Malfoy one could never be sure. Hermione looked him in the eyes, inexplicably fierce, as she inhaled.

He was still quite close, and she caught a whiff of him: tobacco and mint, cedar and sugar cookies. Hermione hummed happily and closed her eyes in satisfaction as she took her first pull on the cigarette with the casual air of someone who had definitely done this a number of times before.

“You _do_ smoke!” Draco accused, delighted. His eyes were alive with amusement. “How the hell did you manage to hide it from me?”

“I _did_ smoke,” Hermione admitted. “Now I only do it when I’m drunk. Or on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

“Which are you now?” Draco's voice was perfectly deadpan - he blew out a series of truly extravagant smoke rings, which served no purpose Hermione could see other than showing off. With great effort, she attempted not to think of the potential implications regarding just what he could do with that mouth. 

“The latter, clearly.” Hermione groaned, not mentioning that it was largely because of _him_. “I _wish_ I was drunk. No one spiked the punch this year, and I'm almost disappointed.”

“You’re full of surprises tonight, Granger,” Draco said fondly, his eyes meeting hers in the dark. 

“As are _you_ , Malfoy.” She endeavored to stay arch, but gave him a long, meaningful look. 

He did not deign to respond, and for a while they smoked in companionable silence.

“You got free, I see,” he observed casually. “I suppose Prince Potter saved the day after all?”

She snorted. “Hardly. It was Luna, actually, bless her soul. She kissed my elbow, if you’ll believe it, but she insisted on calling it my _weenus_.” Hermione wrinkled her nose in displeasure.

“Sounds like Lovegood.” Draco chuckled. She watched him surveying the rain-drenched city, where the slick streets were at risk of turning icy. 

At length, Draco stubbed his cigarette out on the wet iron rail and cast it into the waiting ashtray. Hermione’s bare arms were covered in gooseflesh. “Granger, you’re shivering,” he said quietly, grasping her left forearm as he met her gaze. 

Hermione shuddered, and not from the cold. There was _history_ there, and he knew exactly what he was doing. 

He had this way of looking at her like they were playing a chess game. _Is that really the move you’re going to make?,_ he seemed to be asking her with those incisive eyes, at basically all times. She found it equal parts thrilling and exhausting. 

“I'm fine,” she insisted stubbornly, shaking her arm free and stomping out her own cigarette, then crossing her arms and rubbing her hands over her cold biceps.

“You are _not._ ” He eyed her with great petulance, slinking out of the black wool cape of his dress robes and settling it over her shoulders carefully. 

“Fine, _you_ freeze then.” Her voice was cavalier, but her subtext was, _Thank you._

He’d left his hand resting artfully on her shoulder when he had arranged the cloak over it. Now his arm was around her, gently drawing her into him. 

She shifted a little closer, feeling the pulsing warmth of him along her side, but kept her aloof gaze leveled at the London cityscape sprawling out below them. There was plenty at stake here. She took her time, considering.

“Why tease me?” she finally asked, in a small, defeated voice. “Why not just… kiss me, or _not_?” She looked up at him evenly, her eyes vulnerable. “Is it about _power_ for you? Even after all these years?”

“Unggghhhh.” Draco groaned, closing his eyes morosely. “I’ll _never_ get used to Gryffindors. For the record, it’s _not_ about power, but if it were, do you think I’d simply _tell_ you?” He rubbed his free thumb into his eye socket and exhaled through pouty lips. 

“Would you specifically tell me specifically?” Hermione asked, determined to make some kind of point. Her dark curls had escaped her chignon completely and were tumbling out over her shoulders. She shot him a shrewd look. “Yes, I think you would.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was conceived as a humorous NC-17 fluffy smut biscuit on the crack-ish side, but then Draco showed up and insisted on being taken _seriously_ (not to mention his unexpected sexual shyness), so instead, you get this: an R-rated tidbit of lightly angsty Christmas cheese that got away from itself a little bit. Writing it helped distract me from Holiday Family Feelings, so perhaps reading it can do the same for you. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please comment or leave a kudos! 
> 
> I flew without a beta on this one. All mistakes are my own.


	2. Christmas Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I play a little fast and loose, retroactively, with minor events from canon in this chapter (effectively rewriting Draco's sorting), but hopefully no one minds too much!

_Tuesday, December 21, 2004_

_In Wake of Father’s Death, Malfoy Heir Recants, Donates Half of Estate to Support Muggle-Born and Magical Creature Rights_. Hermione reread the _Prophet_ article about Malfoy’s public apology for the seventh time, considering the rather articulate interview that had accompanied it. Too good to be true, almost certainly. Then she glanced up across the Leaky Cauldron to where the man himself was nursing a butterbeer at the bar. Catching her studious gaze, he crossed over to her.

She hadn’t seen him since she’d testified at his trial. She detested him, of course, but he had been a child caught in an impossible situation. She wasn’t going to let him rot in Azkaban. 

“You’ve seen the news, then,” Draco said now, and Hermione wanted desperately to goad him, but there was absolutely no venom in his voice. All of the smugness had been drained out of him. His features had a raw quality, as though he had just removed a mask he had been wearing his entire life.

“Of course, Malfoy.” She sniffed at him, keeping her face prim. “Very _strategic_ of you, of course.” 

“I don’t expect you to ever forgive me,” Draco said. “I certainly don’t deserve it.” His eyes were sincere and his voice was steady, but… tinged with regret. He actually sounded remorseful, but it wasn’t as though he weren’t capable of guile. He waved a hand at the paper before her. “For what it’s worth, I did mean it all.”

He looked directly at her, his grey eyes wide open and impossibly mournful, his face pained. “I’m sorry,” he said, soulfully, and she couldn’t help it; she believed him. 

“For what?” Hermione couldn't stop herself from challenging him, though perhaps it was cruel to push him. He was showing her his belly, and she was gently running the blade of a knife along it. 

Hesitating, he drew one long finger over the inside of her left wrist very faintly, and she resisted the urge to flinch back. It was covered, of course, but they both knew about the cursed Mudblood scar that rested beneath her sleeve. Draco looked as though he were concerned she might punch him, but she found she didn’t have any desire to fight him left in her. Hermione vividly remembered his horrified face on the day he’d watched his aunt carve a slur into her arm. 

He never broke eye contact. “For everything, Granger, of course,” he said with great sorrow, then walked solemnly away. 

* * *

_Thursday, December 15, 2005_

“Thank you again for meeting me.” Hermione stiffly poured the tea.

Draco sighed. “Alright,” he said, looking defeated. “Let me have it.” 

Hermione crinkled her forehead, puzzled.

He raised his brows at her expectantly, wincing. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. “Let me have it. Remind me of every awful thing I’ve ever done. I deserve it.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione said slowly, squinching her face at him in confusion. “That’s not why I’ve invited you here.”

“It’s not?” He sounded shocked, as though it had not occurred to him there could be any other reason. And yet, here he sat before her.

“I’m here to offer you an internship.” Now that it was out, she relaxed a bit, doctoring her tea. “Wedge of lemon?”

Draco leaned forward in confusion, as though he hadn’t heard her properly. He tilted his head skeptically.

“It isn’t paid, of course,” Hermione went on in a brisk tone of voice, “but I can hardly imagine you need any more money.” He pursed his lips at her crassness, as she cradled her chin in her hand, then peered up at him with wide eyes. 

“The truth is, it doesn’t really matter what your intentions may be. We could really use you. We have an excellent, widely representative team assembled - Muggle-borns, elves, goblins, centaurs, Squibs, werewolves - but we don’t have anyone who can really help us understand and reach the hearts and minds of former Death Eaters and high-society Purebloods, which is our target audience when it comes to education and our work to decrease prejudice and implicit bias within the Wizarding World.” 

She slipped him a small smile, leveling with him. “If you really meant even half the things you said about restorative justice in the recent _Quibbler_ feature, this would be an _excellent_ opportunity to put it into practice.”

“And even if you didn’t mean it,” she continued, sipping her tea casually, “well, it certainly couldn’t hurt your image. And it would still be beneficial to our cause, so…” she shrugged carelessly, trying to look as though it didn’t really matter to her what his motivations were, although of course it did.

Draco’s brows were raised at her in question and his intelligent grey eyes were wide, as though he couldn’t quite believe she was serious. 

“I accept,” he eventually answered, nodding professionally. 

“Excellent.” She clasped her hands with evident satisfaction. “I’ll meet you in the Ministry lobby at 8 am Monday to take care of the paperwork, and you can start in the new year.” 

Hermione started to gather her things, and then paused, unable to ignore her bleeding heart. She eyed him sympathetically, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Malfoy… Have people been treating you terribly? Inviting you out in order to eviscerate you?”

He must have read some pity on her face, because he cast his eyes heavenward and sighed. There were bags under his eyes, she noticed, and he was looking even paler than usual. “Granger,” he said in a gravelly voice, raising his hands as though in surrender. “It’s not yours to worry over. I invited real conversation in a public forum. It isn’t as though what they say isn’t true. Everyone knows that I’m a rotten man.” He smiled thinly.

Without thinking, she reached out and ran a finger tentatively over the inside of his left forearm, over his shirtsleeve. Perhaps it wasn’t the most professional gesture in the world, but in any long-standing relationship, even an adversarial one, there were certain intimacies. When his eyes finally met hers, her gaze was righteous, fierce. “Well,” she said, determined, and tapped his wrist once before releasing it, never breaking his gaze. “Let’s prove them wrong.” 

* * *

_Friday, December 18, 2009_

“What indignities did you inflict on this firewhisky to make it taste like _Christmas_?” Draco asked a bit sloppily, raising a brow. He was lounging on her desk, his ass crumpling a stack of important papers. His shirt was undone to the third button, his sleeves were pushed up above his elbows, and he’d kicked off his shoes after his second drink.

Hermione opened her mouth, marginally affronted. She was reclining in the leather desk chair, her bare feet crossed and propped up next to Draco on the desk. Her crumpled navy pencil skirt had hitched up to mid-thigh. “I dropped some cinnamon sticks and whole cloves into it a month ago,” she admitted defensively. “It’s _festive_!”

“I feel that I should hate it on principle” - Draco bumped his knee playfully into her propped up legs - “but it’s _stupidly_ good.” He knocked back what was left of his glass and reached for the bottle.

Hermione observed her deputy director, cast tonight in the role of the disheveled rascal, effortlessly destroying any sense of order that had ever existed on her desk as he lolled back gracefully. He had no right to be so damned _attractive_.

Ostensibly, they were drinking one round to celebrate having _finally_ removed all of the policies banning werewolves from employment from every single department of the Ministry and implementing new policies that should stop it from ever happening again. That had been several rounds ago.

“That wasn’t a _real_ question.” Hermione's imperious tendencies, tamped down in adulthood, reemerged when she was tipsy. “But it’s not _my_ business if you waste your turn, so it’s my go…” She paused, and when her eyes met his, her voice grew soft. “What’s something you’ve never told anyone else before?”

Draco pressed his lips together and gazed at the ceiling loftily, considering. “I was a hatstall,” he declared after a moment, looking at her significantly. “Ravenclaw.”

Hermione gasped, leaning forward and grasping his dangling calf in shocked emphasis. “ _SO. WAS. I!!”_

Draco looked a little melancholy but not entirely surprised.

Her face grew solemn as she considered this new information, chewing her lip. “ _Malfoy_. What if we’d both been in Ravenclaw? Do you think it would have been… _better_?”

Something wistful and wishful drifted across Draco’s features before disappearing. “Of course it would have been better, Granger.” He leaned forward and grasped her left wrist with his left hand, and she immediately closed her hand around his wrist in kind. Gripping her tightly, Draco shot her a searing look. “How could it possibly have been _worse_?”

“You still would have hated me,” she said sadly, her eyes the tiniest bit wet, “because of who I am. Who my parents are.”

“I never hated you, Granger.” Draco's voice was delicate, his eyes pained. “I _tried_ to hate you, because I couldn’t have you, but I could never quite manage it.”

Hermione brushed away her not-quite-tears and locked eyes with him. He was staring at her with what she was almost certain was naked longing. But they’d both been drinking; perhaps she was seeing things wrong. Feeling her eyes well up again, she turned her head to the side and gently tugged her wrist free.

It had crossed her mind before then, of course. But that was when she had first started to really wonder.

* * *

_Friday, December 24, 2010 -_ _8:01 pm_

Though Hermione was very determinedly looking off the balcony and _not_ at Draco, she could hear him take a long steadying breath, as though he were preparing himself to face his executioner. 

“Come here, Granger,” he said very quietly. When she turned, he stepped into her.

He took his time, unbuttoning the cuff of his left sleeve and rolling it up. Reverently, he reached for her left arm and ran his thumb softly over her scar. Grasping her wrist with his right hand, he lifted her arm up so that it was vertical. His eyes looked searchingly into hers as he lifted his own left arm, now bare, and pressed it against hers so that his Dark Mark collided directly with her Mudblood scar. He twined his fingers through hers, and they stood there for a long time holding hands, mark to mark, eye to eye, both breathing hard through the palpable but indefinable magic that surged between them.

“Granger.” Draco closed his eyes and swallowed. Sometimes when he said her surname it felt more intimate than even the most profound times anyone else had ever said her first name. He looked at her again, carefully, his eyes tender. 

“Has it occurred to you that we may be bound?”

Hermine blinked, blowing out a heavy breath. She tilted her head in consideration, chewing her bottom lip. “It’s occurred to me,” she admitted, “I’ve gone so far as to look into it this past year, though in my research it’s been difficult to determine how much of all that is…” she paused, wrinkling her face, unsure how to say it without offending his Pureblood sensibilities, “erm, actually real.”

Draco sighed, dropping her arm. “It’s true the literature can be heavy-handed,” he said, “but you have to understand, Granger. Bond magic is truly old and potent magic, and I was raised to respect it above most other things.” 

His silver eyes were plaintive as he met her gaze. “It’s one thing, if we’re bound in work, in mission. But bonds are… tricky. Where there’s one, there are often others. And they can be accidentally invoked…”

Draco rested his hands on her waist again. Hermione let her hands return to his neck, let her fingers drift soothingly through his fine, smooth hair. 

“If I were to kiss you,” he continued softly, his eyes closed, “under some sodding _mistletoe_ , out of total _selfishness_ … and some ancient bond magic just _happened_ to kick in, without you ever knowing about it…” His eyes flickered open, and his features were stained with guilt and regret. “I’d never forgive myself, Granger.” 

Her eyes flashed surprise, then softened in dawning understanding. 

“I’m trying to be a better man, Granger.” His voice was hushed, his unwavering eyes uncharacteristically earnest. “I don’t want you to end up _married_ to me, fated but miserable, because we accidentally activated old magic we didn’t understand. Because I had a moment of weakness, and because you thought, ‘Hey, it’s Christmas, why not just this once?’ If I were to kiss you, I’d want you to be _at choice_.” 

“I don’t believe in fate,” Hermione replied, matter-of-fact. “We can’t always control what happens to us, but we can choose how we respond. I’m _always_ at choice.”

Draco lifted a hand and stroked it softly down her face, dragging his thumb slowly over her bottom lip before returning it to her waist. He raised a brow and smiled sadly at her. “What if you aren’t, though? What if you’re _wrong_?” 

Hermione snorted through her nose and smiled cheekily at him. “We both know I’m never wrong,” she said wryly, but her eyes were sincere. “Besides,” she continued, her lips quirking in a fond half-smile, “who says I’d be miserable? There are far worse fates than marrying you.” 

He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers and closing his eyes again. “Granger,” he whispered, and she could feel his labored breathing. “If you don’t mean it, please don’t-” Draco opened his eyes and pulled back to look at her, and she saw the scared child in him. “Don’t toy with me, Granger. I couldn’t bear it-”

“Malfoy,” Hermione breathed, the wells of her brown eyes open and deep, “I’ve spent the past _year_ trying to push down the riot in my stomach every time you so much as _look_ at me. You’re _tormenting_ me. Please,” she sighed, dragging a thumb down the sharp line of his jaw without looking away, “please kiss me.” 

Draco’s lips crushed into hers as her eyes fluttered closed. She let loose a little gasp as her lips met his hungrily. His hands roved over the base of her spine, stirring the velvet. She was still wearing his cape, and he reached under it to let his fingers roam the bare skin between her shoulder blades. She had tangled one hand in his hair, the other grasping his shoulder, his back, his jaw, anywhere she could gain purchase. Somehow the ashtray had clattered to the ground, and she found that she had pushed him against the damp wall. 

Within her, and _between_ them, Hermione felt a stirring, a powerful swell. It was as though a beam of molten light connected and then engulfed them. She didn’t know whether it was a bond or if it was just a feeling, amplified by everything that already existed between them. She would research it later, of course, but for now she was content to bask in its brilliance, letting it wash over her as their mouths collided fiercely.

She broke the kiss, panting, and Draco looked into her eyes as though he could fall into them forever and not mind so very much. 

“Let’s go back to the part,” Draco said huskily from where she had pinned him to the wall, “about marrying me not being the worst fate.” 

She laughed, releasing his wrist, and he dotted tiny kisses along her jaw, before fixing his intense eyes on hers. “What do I need to do to upgrade that from ‘not the worst’ to ‘an excellent idea’?” His voice was light, but a thin current of candor ran through each word. 

“Keep doing the work,” Hermione said simply. “Keep showing up. Keep _kissing_ me like that, for the love of Merlin... And I’m sure I could find _other uses_ for that mouth of yours.” She smirked at him suggestively, and a low groan escaped him as his hand dipped gently to the base of her back, _just_ above the swell of her ass. 

“And then we’ll talk.” Her eyes were playful as they met his, but she hoped he could read her subtextual, _Can’t you see that I love you already, you idiot?_ , and see that she _meant_ it _._

 _“_ Although,” she continued, “I wouldn’t relish sending your mother to an early grave.” Her voice was still light, but it had a real question beneath it. They had worked together to change the Wizarding World, and they had had some significant successes. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t still face obstacles, his family being only one of several enormous barriers.

“Well, you’re not going to ask me to kill her for you, are you?” he groused playfully, but his eyes were still soft.

“Of course not!” She rolled her eyes. “But I imagine having me as a daughter-in-law might put her over the edge.

“Granger.” Malfoy shook his head in amusement. “You have no idea. The tides have _turned_. My mother has been trying to foist the first draft of a betrothal contract on me ever since I started working here.”

Hermione felt her heart sink. Her eyes went wide as she asked, “Betrothal contract? Are those still a _thing_? To whom?”

“To _you_ , Granger.” Draco looked at her as though she were a bit daft and, just possibly, he loved her for it. “You’re not going to kill her; you’re her _top choice_. Every third month or so I have to endure a disturbingly well-researched lecture about what an advantageous match you’d make.”

Hermione’s jaw had dropped, and she was gawking at Draco in disbelief. “And you never _told_ me?!” She slugged him lightly on the shoulder. 

“And how would _that_ have gone?” Draco inquired, waxing ironic as he squinted one eye at her quizzically. “ _Morning, boss! Mondays, eh? By the by, here’s an invitation on 100-pound linen from my mother, she’s hoping you’ll be able to drop by for an extremely formal tea in the parlour - terribly gauche of us, I know, but she insists it’s the_ only _room in the manor fit for entertaining - so that she can enumerate the strategic reasons you might marry me. Do send an RSVP by owl by Friday, would you? She also has some mortifyingly detailed questions about your childbearing capabilities, so if you don’t mind swinging by St. Mungo’s for a check-up first, that would expedite the whole process..._ ”

“Enough.” Hermione groaned, lifting her hands in surrender. “Point made.” She threw her arms around his back, pressing herself up against him. “Now stop talking,” she breathed, drawing a moan from his lips as she nipped his earlobe, “and kiss me again.”

Allowing the hand at the base of her spine to drift ever lower, abandoning his other hand to the wilds of her hair, surrendering all of himself to anything she desired if only she would keep pressing her hot mouth to his neck, Draco was happy to comply.

“You’re impossible, Granger,” he purred into her mouth rapturously, which meant approximately, _I love you_.

“You’re incorrigible, Malfoy,” she grumbled breathlessly as he pressed fervent kisses just under her jawline, which meant roughly, _I love you, too, obviously_. 


	3. Epilogue: Christmas Future

_Friday, December 24, 2010 - 8:21 pm, as seen from the distant future_

“I just remembered,” Draco had said a moment later, pulling back slightly, “I have a Christmas present for you. In my desk.” 

“Give it to me _tomorrow_ , Malfoy,” she had groaned, and she’d planted another soft, wet kiss on his mouth. “Or even next year…” Then she had kissed him again. “We have plenty of time.” 

Draco hadn’t quite believed it at the moment, but she would turn out to be right, as usual. They would have plenty of time, years of it: for exchanging gifts, for kissing aimlessly, for drinking pedestrian (but delicious!) spiced firewhisky, for engaging in long meandering debates for the sake of argument itself. 

There would be time for lying naked in the dark, pressed skin to skin, holding one another’s shoulders and crying. There would be time for opening their broken hearts to each other and letting the light seep painfully into each crack. There would be time enough for healing. 

There would be time for him to worry that he wouldn’t know how to please her, and time for her to teach him that he could. He hadn’t been a virgin, of course, but his upbringing had been old-fashioned, and he’d been closer to it than most would have guessed. He would slowly shake off his indoctrinated Pureblood hang-ups about sex, about the shame of pleasure, about the primacy of procreation, about _purity_ , not of blood but of body, of intention. It would take years to get all of the way through it, but he would gradually replace each of these in turn with the heady, earthy pleasures of losing himself completely in her exquisite flesh. 

There would be time, hours and hours and hours of it, for him to put his mouth on her and make her cry out his name, and then cry it out again, and again and again and again, until she flopped back flushed and feral on the bed, fully satisfied. 

There would be time for them to lay each other down, or bend each other over, or sink into each other, roughly, or sweetly, or passionately, on the kitchen counter and on the desk of her office and in his sumptuous bed, on the cold bare floor of their brand new flat. On the living room rug in front of the fire, where she would singe her old school robes during an ill-conceived role play. On a broom once, which would prove interesting but not entirely successful. Against the wall in an alcove at Hogwarts after a strategic meeting with McGonagall, and thank the gods they wouldn’t be caught.

There would be time for him to commission a ring, to carefully choose a stone from a Muggle shop: a tiny, tasteful, ethically-mined opal that flared brilliantly in the light. He would break every single one of the curses and protections on the ostentatious ring from his mother’s side of the family that Hermione hated, 100% pure gold with _Toujours Pur_ engraved inside it. He would melt it down and have it alloyed with platinum to make a thin, simple band stronger even than a diamond. Set into it, the unassuming opal. Inside, _À Toi Pour Toujours_ , which was a much better sentiment. 

There would be 263 anxious days for him to carry the finished engagement ring, heavy with the combined weight of all of its symbolism and all of his fears, in his pocket every day. There would be less than three seconds for her to nearly knock him off of his feet with her enthusiastic embrace as she cried, “Yes, of course, yes!” 

There would be a full year to plan the wedding but only ten days to honeymoon in the south of France while evading reporters and paparazzi. 

There would be good work and new causes, think pieces written on the implications of their union for social justice in the Wizarding World, room for them to define for themselves what it meant to become the Granger-Malfoy family. There would be time for _negotiations_. 

There would be time for them to argue, _really_ argue, and time for them to work it out. 

Their friends and family would get used to it, and then come to support it, and then have a hard time remembering what it was even like before they had gotten together. 

There would be 37 blissful minutes to work up to conceiving a child they would name after a constellation, 41 weeks and three days to incubate her before she came fully into the world, and the rest of their lives to try to do right by her.

There would be seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, decades.

There would be time for their love to build, to change, to fade, to bloom again, to grow.

There would be dozens of Christmases, but Hermione would always shun mistletoe. There were, after all, thousands of other times and ways and places for them to kiss, ways in which both of them would always be fully at choice. 

There would be time, decades upon decades of it, for them to choose each other every single day. 

But none of that had happened yet, in those first minutes out on the balcony. None of it was certain in that moment; Draco couldn’t have known. He had been plagued, of course, by the usual fears. 

Perhaps she _was_ toying with him, although she didn’t seem to be, and she had never been very coy. Perhaps it was all a plot to humiliate him: extremely unlikely, but _possible_. Almost certainly he would prove inadequate; he most definitely wasn’t good enough for her, a fact of which he was well aware.

Perhaps he would lose everything: his work, his hope, his tenuous foothold on redemption.

Perhaps he would lose _her_. 

But then again, if there was any chance that this thing that was blossoming between them was what he thought it was, what he felt it to be in his very bones, then it was worth any risk. If there was any chance that she could love him even half as much as he loved her, he had to take it. 

“Don’t stop kissing me,” she had said just then, and he hadn’t.

He hadn’t. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it, folks! It was a bit of a wild ride, but I hope you had fun. 
> 
> I tried to envision the best of all possible Dracos, the one possible reality in which he might have become a Muggle-born and magical creature rights advocate. What did you think of this flavor of Malfoy? 
> 
> This work was originally conceived as a smut biscuit, but it just didn't go that way. I could perhaps be persuaded to write a free-standing smutty addendum, if there were interest... 
> 
> Sharing fanfiction is vulnerable! If you want to feed and nourish this author's soul/daily word count, comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Keep your eyes peeled for a long, multi-chapter Nevmione with a splash of Dramione. I'm neck deep in it and will be posting it with regular updates when it is fully drafted. Coming eventually! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: [grangerdangerfics](https://grangerdangerfics.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And of course, the characters and world of this story do not belong to me. Everything is J.K. Rowling's. This work is not-for-profit. Share links freely, but please don't post the work itself in other locations.
> 
> Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this creation.


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